


A Dying Man, He Asked For You

by SaadieStuff



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Alex, M/M, mild descriptions of violence/injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 06:42:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18889249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaadieStuff/pseuds/SaadieStuff
Summary: Alex in pain is breaking Michael's heart - and not in the way that he’s used to. (AKA yet another future fic post-1x13 getting Malex back together. Can't ever have too many!)For the prompt: “I tried my best to not feel anything for you. Guess what? I failed.” - Post finale Malex, happy ending obvs, Michael's attempts at moving on failed miserably and Alex is still waiting because Alex is a gift?





	A Dying Man, He Asked For You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [estel_willow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/estel_willow/gifts).



> Thanks for the prompt estel_willow! :D
> 
>  
> 
> ~~I actually don't know how I feel about this...?~~

“Are you Michael? Michael Guerin?”  
   
Both Michael and Maria are startled away from attempting to squint through the drawn blinds of patient room 305.  
   
“Yeah, I’m him,” Michael says, turning to face the doctor who’d spoken. He was old, with kind, well-lined, eyes.  
   
“Good. My resident is in there with Alex right now, but you can go in as soon as she comes out.”  
   
“Is he… is he okay?” Michael asks weakly, “You said I’m his emergency contact? Do I need to decide something--?”  
   
“No, no,” the doctor says, brows furrowing, shaking his head, “Like I said on the phone, he's pretty roughed up, but stable and awake.”  
   
“I’m afraid he didn’t hear much of what you said on the phone,” Maria explains, remembering watching Michael’s face turn pale as he’d received the news that Alex was hurt and in the hospital a town over.  
   
Just then, the door to Alex's room opens, and a young resident comes out.  
   
“There, now you can go see for yourself,” the doctor says, grinning.  
   
But Michael _had_ seen as the door swung. He’d seen Alex lying on the bed, curled on his left side to face the door, looking small, with a large cast covering his entire right arm.  
   
"He hates me," Michael blurts out, eyes wide, when the door clicks shut.  
   
The doctor sighs. “Son, when he came here, he was in a lot of pain, losing just enough blood to be scared, _really_ scared, and he was trying to be a brave soldier - I can see he’s been through worse - but he was asking for _you_. He was asking for you in a way a dying man doesn’t ask for some friend of his whose name he slapped on a medical form a few months back and then forgot to take off when they got into a fight.”  
   
Michael feels like he might be sick. He doesn’t know why. He just wants to be in that room _and_ he wants to be as far away from it as possible - at the same time.  
   
The doctor continues, “So you see, I told him, what I hoped was reassuringly, that he was not dying and would be able to call you himself.”  
   
“He didn’t,” Michael gulps.  
   
"That’s why I did,” the doctor says quickly, “Now, would you please _consider_ going in there and trying to convince my patient not to leave against medical advice? I’d like him to stay overnight for monitoring, and so he can relax with stronger pain relief and heal, and he’s having none of it.” The doctor smiles, claps Michael gently on the shoulder and leaves without another word.  
   
Maria turns to him. Michael looks like he's about to break. He puts his face up to the window of Alex’s room and stares, even though the blinds are still drawn.  
   
"Guerin..." Maria says softly, reaching for him and turning him around.  
   
He stares at her, wide eyed, tears pooling.  
   
"Guerin, you need to go in there.” She speaks calmly, but it’s a order.  
   
"I-- I-- can't--" Michael stutters.  
   
"Pull yourself together. The doctor said he'll be okay. Have you still not heard that part?" she says a little briskly, hoping to get his attention.  
   
"I don't want to hurt him again. I can't. He’s already hurt and I’m just going to go in there and...” he trails off, drawing in on himself, hating that he’s back, yet again, at this place of not trusting that he won’t hurt someone he loves.    
   
Beside him, Maria takes a deep breath. Then her words rush out.  
   
"You and I are over."  
   
"What?" Michael asks, casually, like he hasn’t understood.  
   
“I’m breaking up with you,” she says firmly.  
   
“What?” Michael says again, this time his voice is soft and high, cracking over the single syllable.  
   
"You'll go in there, hold him, and forget that I even exist," she says explains calmly, "And that’s how it should be. You should be with someone who chases the whole world away. And that someone isn’t me."  
   
"Maria--"  
   
“I want you to be there for him and I don’t want you to feel guilty for loving him while you do it,” she tells him. "Alex needs you right now. And you need him. You've been needing him all these months.” It’s not an accusation, it’s just facts.  
   
Michael stares at her, his mouth opening and closing against words refusing to form; words of pleading, the kind you’d expect to say when being dumped by someone you genuinely like. Instead, a feeling like relief overwhelms him.  
   
“You don’t have to deny it. It’s okay,” Maria assures him.  
   
“It’s not okay,” he manages to get out.  
   
“It’s not,” she admits, “But that’s why we need to end things. Because it probably never should have started, especially not the way it did.”  
   
“It wasn’t meaningless.” He offers her the one truth he can.  
   
“I know. We care about each other and we work strangely well together,” she smiles sadly at him, her tone tender and wistful, “But there was never enough there.”  
   
Michael hangs his head, silent tears roll down his face. Maria knows it's not for mourning their four-month relationship. It’s about him realizing that he’s hurt Alex for this thing that isn’t even real, and that maybe they’ve only lasted as long as they have because they didn’t want to admit that. And it’s about him releasing his pent up terror of the last few hours since finding out Alex was hurt, that yet another of his small family might have died on him.  
   
Maria feels crappy about the whole thing, but the timing sucks especially. There’s no room for the debrief they probably both need, and now there never will be. But it’s more important that she get Michael to Alex.    
   
“I wish there was a better moment to do this, but every day longer I wait is just worse isn’t it? There’s so much more I wanted to say, but--.”  
   
“Wanted to?” Michael says slowly, a smirk nearly crossing his face, that annoying involuntary one that creeps up like a shield when he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the state of his life, “How long ‘you been planning on letting me go, DeLuca?”  
   
“I never really had you,” Maria says with a small shrug. It's sad, but she won't let the tears fall, not here.  
   
"I'm sorry,” he says, because she’s right, if he’s honest. And that was never fair to either of them.  
   
"No,” she shakes her head gently, “Let's save our apologies for Alex, okay?"  
   
Michael nods, with a sniffle. Maria reaches up to raise his chin, and wipe a tear off his cheek, knowing it's the last time she'll ever touch him like that.  
   
"Guerin, we're not going to talk about this later," she tells him, turning to walk away.  
   
~~~~~  
   
Michael forgets the entire world the moment Alex's room door closes behind him.  
   
Alex hasn’t moved since Michael had caught a glimpse of him a few minutes ago. Lying on his left side, curled almost up against the bed rail, one hand gripping it tightly, the other in a cast along with much of his arm, extending past his elbow. His eyes fly open at the noise of Michael’s cowboy boots on the hard floor.  
   
“Gu--Guerin?” Alex stammers, in groggy surprise.  
   
“Your doctor called me. You could probably sue him breach of privacy,” Michael jokes feebly.  
   
Alex huffs, and Michael isn’t sure what that means, so he moves closer, pulls up a chair next to the bed, and settles into it.  
   
"Hey," Michael says softly, resting his chin on the bed rail.  
   
Alex squeezes his eyes shut. He feels exposed, and it's the only way he has to hide.  
   
Michael thinks for a moment he's being dismissed - that the nice old doctor had it wrong - and that he is in fact the _last_ person Alex wants to see. But then Michael notices Alex struggling to uncurl his shaky hand from the railing. Michael reaches for it and takes it in his, and with the other folds down the railing, allowing him lean in closer.  
   
Michael strokes Alex's sweaty hair, mindful to avoid touching the cut and bruise at the side of his forehead. Still, Alex flinches at first and clutches Michael's hand tightly, but he quickly calms as Michael continues with slow consistent movements.  
   
“Jumpy,” Alex says by way of explanation.  
   
"What happened?" Michael asks softly.  
   
“For the record? Fell down some stairs.”  
   
“Off-record?”  
   
“Beaten up,” Alex says weakly, knowing Michael will hate that answer if he still feels anything for him, and Michael's tear-stained face says that he does.  
   
Hot anger flashes through Michael's whole body. He’s going to tear apart whoever did this.  
   
“By who? And why?” Michael asks, managing to keep a lid on his emotions.  
   
“Three goons. I got too close to something I’m not supposed to know about, and someone wanted to scare me. Left me alive - even called me an ambulance - because they’ll be back asking for favours. They were impressed with my skills, I guess.”  
   
“Jesus, Alex.” Michael hates that Alex is making new enemies. Jesse Manes is enough. “Who are these people? What are you looking into?”  
   
“Shouldn’t talk. Not here,” Alex says, sounding tired.  
   
“Okay,” Michael drops it, though he doesn’t like it. “Are you in a lot of pain?”  
   
Alex tries to shake his head, not finding the energy to speak a convincing lie, but that hurts. He winces, and lets out an involuntary whimper that just about breaks Michael's heart.  
   
“Easy, easy,” Michael soothes, “Just relax.”  
   
Alex bites his lip against a groan as he shifts, trying to get passably comfortable again.  
   
“Look, I already know you’re a total badass. You can let it out,” Michael says, smiling fondly at Alex, trying to hide his own pain.  
   
Alex nods once, barely perceptible, and closes his eyes again, forcing a few tears through his eyelashes. Most run straight into the pillow - the others Michael wipes off the bridge of Alex’s nose.  
   
“So, what’s the damage here?” Michael tries, uncomfortable in the silence, “Broken arm obviously--”  
   
“Doesn’t need surgery.”  
   
“Head injury - I’m guessing concussion.”  
   
“Yeah. And twisted my knee and broke the prosthetic. Broken rib or two. Nothing much to be done about those.”  
   
Michael breathes deep. “Doc said you bled a lot?”  
   
“Head wounds will do that. And I gashed my back on something when I got pushed down. I don’t even know what. Nothing serious, just enough blood to be… concerning…”  
   
“Fuck, Alex, they could have killed you. You could have died,” Michael says, voice strained.  
   
“I’m fine. I’ve had plenty of close calls over the years.”  
   
“You can't just say that,” Michael starts, voice cracking, “You can’t just say that all casual like it’s nothing.”  
   
Alex smiles unexpectedly, “And here I’d thought I’d gone soft.”  
   
“What?”  
   
Alex’s smile fades, he drops his gaze, the hand clasped in Michael’s shifts to play absently with Michael’s fingers instead. “A few bruises and broken bones, some blood, a little light headed, and I'm babbling to some random doctor about needing you? Never happened before.”  
   
“Before?” Michael’s mouth is suddenly dry.  
   
“When I nearly died last year,” Alex continues, somehow feeling bold in the knowledge that he’ll blame the pain meds later, and it won’t matter whether Michael believes him. Still, his voice is quiet. “When I nearly died… I wanted you. I wanted you and no one else. But I didn't ask for you. We'd ended off so badly the last time I'd been in town… It wouldn’t have mattered anyways ‘cause my dad was hovering around my hospital bed, pretending like he gave a damn about anything besides another Manes family medal. And even in my drugged-up state I somehow knew I couldn’t ask for you. I couldn’t have what I wanted.”  
   
Michael shakes his head, “No,” his voice trembles, “You could’ve. I would have come. You can _always_ call me if you're in trouble. No matter what. And if you think--”  
   
“Doesn’t mean I should,” Alex says, cutting him off, “You have your own life. It's not fair for me to--”  
   
Michael ignores that, “And if you think you're weak for asking for what you want? For taking what you want? It's the opposite, Alex,” he says forcefully.  
   
“You can't just take _people_ , Guerin,” Alex answers softly.  
   
“Fine. But you get my point,” Michael says more gently.  
   
“And what about if-- what if what I want might hurt me?” Alex counters, voice a little stronger now as he meets Michael’s eyes again.  
   
Michael knows he's talking about _him_ , but he takes his chance to steer the conversation far away. “You mean like wanting to go home now, against medical advice?”  
   
Alex sighs.  
   
“Your doctor asked me to convince you to stay the night for monitoring. And so you could have the good drugs.”  
   
“No. I don’t want to sleep here. I don’t want to wake up here.”  
   
“You’ll be safe. I’ll be here.”  
   
“It’s not that… I just don’t want to be in a hospital.”  
   
Michael frowns at him. “Don’t make me crawl in that bed with you,” he says, playing it off as a joke, though desperately hoping Alex will take him up on it, knowing it will make them both feel a little safer, despite everything.  
   
Alex's heart clenches. He hates how weak he feels for wanting Michael to do just that. He hates the thought that Michael might be doing it out of guilt. But he doesn’t care. Earlier this morning he got jumped by three guys and thought they were going to kill him - and now he wants to be held. That, he wouldn’t hold against himself. That he wants it to be _Michael_ and _only_ Michael? Fuck. He wants it. He still won't say it.  
   
“You can’t,” Alex tries instead.  
   
“Why?”  
   
“Maria.”  
   
Now is not the time to tell Alex about the breakup, Michael decides, rightly or wrongly. “Maria drove me here while I freaked out, and then she ordered me to get my ass into this room and cuddle you, so…”  
   
“Oh.”  
   
“Yeah. So I’m going to put this railing back up, first…” which Michael does, before walking around to the other side of the bed, kicking off his boots, and taking off his belt, which he knows from experience does not make for comfortable snuggling.  
   
The bed dips as Michael crawls in, spooning behind Alex. It’s cramped, but they’re a little bit used to it from the airstream, like never fading muscle memory.  
   
Alex's hospital gown gapes open at the back, and Michael can see a long bandage running up Alex’s back, the bottom disappearing under the sheets, and the top ending at Alex’s shoulder blade. There are bruises everywhere; it looks like he got kicked a few times. Michael’s anger threatens to boil to the surface again - a fury that could start an earthquake - but he touches Alex with such a gentle caress, hot fingers ghosting over Alex’s bare skin, and nothing could be more disparate. He wishes Max were alive so Alex could be healed, so he wouldn’t have to suffer.  
   
Much as it hurts to move, Alex sinks back into Michael, seeking his warmth. Michael does his best to arrange himself to envelope Alex without putting pressure on any of his injuries - it’s a tall order.  
   
“I'm surprised the doctors bought your fall down the stairs story,” Michael says, breath tickling the back of Alex’s neck as he speaks.  
   
“They didn't really…” Alex admits, “Especially the old guy. Asked me a ton of questions. He’s a real meddler.”  
   
“I dunno. I kind of liked him.”  
   
“Me too.”  
   
~~~~~  
   
The next morning, they take a cab to where Alex had left his car.  
   
On the hour and a half drive back to Roswell, Alex explains what he’s been investigating, why he’d taken a trip to this town, how he thinks his assailants found him, and what they want.  
   
“Why are you doing this? There’s no reason for you to risk your life for this shit. It’s not even your job, it’s like it’s your hobby!” Michael half shouts at Alex.  
   
“There are things in this world that aren’t right! Things I can expose,” Alex barks back.  
   
“Dammit, Alex, you’re too brave and righteous and smart for your own good,” Michael says through gritted teeth, gripping the steering wheel tightly.  
   
Alex slumps against the window, exhausted. “Just drive, Guerin. Please.”  
   
Michael does mostly only that, when he’s not trying to convince Alex _not_ to go back to his cabin where he’ll be easy to find.  
   
“If they wanted to kill me, they would have,” Alex reasons, when Michael tries one more time as they pull up the driveway.  
   
“Thanks, that makes me feel much better,” Michael says, rolling his eyes as he puts the car in park.  
   
Michael gets out and goes around to help Alex. With a broken arm on the same side as his bad leg, and missing his prosthetic, the crutch the hospital gave Alex is pretty useless. It had been fine for keeping up appearances as Michael had helped him both physically and, secretly, with the aid of his powers, from the wheelchair into the cab, and the cab into Alex’s car. But now there is no audience.  
   
“I can just float you to the door this time,” Michael offers, as Alex slides off the seat and tries to balance on the ground.  
   
“Um, sure…” Alex says, but immediately regrets it as the strange sensation of floating hits him again. He grabs at Michael’s arm. “Actually, I think I’d rather hold on, like before.”  
   
They make their way into the cabin, Alex clinging tightly to Michael’s side, the crutch floating aimlessly behind them.  
   
Michael settles Alex in his bedroom, following Alex’s instructions to dig out his old prosthetic from the closet. Alex says it’s too big - it had to accommodate swelling - and he’ll have to make some modifications, so Michael leaves him to it and goes to make them some food.  
   
Michael is just turning off the stove when he hears a crash from down the hall. He drops everything and runs towards the noise.  
   
He finds Alex crumpled on the ground, next to his crutch and a large painting that been pulled out of its bearings when Alex had lost his balance and reached out blindly at the wall for support.  
   
“Alex! Are you okay?” Michael calls out as he rushes to his side, “Why didn’t you wait for me to come help you?”  
   
“Because you’re not always going to be here!” Alex shouts at him, lashing out, pushing Michael away with his uncasted arm, yelping as he makes contact and quickly pulling his arm back and drawing it against his body protectively.  
   
Alex’s push was nothing. Michael moves two feet away entirely of his own accord, recognizing his touch isn’t welcome right now.  
   
“Alex--” he starts slowly.  
   
“Stop! Just stop. Just leave me alone,” Alex cries at him.  
   
“Alex, please, let me help you. Just tell me--”  
   
“No! I know how you feel about me. And that’s nice for you that you can lock that away and move on. But I can’t. I couldn’t even be angry properly. So I tried my best to not feel _anything_ for you. Guess what? I failed. I failed _miserably_ ,” his voice is still shaking, but it softens, “So thank you, for coming to hospital. I appreciate that I can call you, I do. But you, here? Cooking at my fucking stove? Helping me? It just hurts. Knowing you’re going home to _her_? So just go. I’m asking for what I want. Go _home_.”  
   
The obstacle of Maria has acted like a protective layer between them, making sure nothing can happen, no lines get crossed, bad habits avoided. He knows it’s time to shed that shield.  
   
“Maria and I broke up,” Michael says gently, “We broke up because my home is _you_. Always been you. Always gonna be you.” There is resignation in his voice, but no hint of regret. “I understand if that doesn’t change anything right now, and you still want me to go…”  
   
But Alex’s face _does_ change as he takes in Michael’s words, a glimmer of hope sparking in his eyes so bright that Michael almost panics, until he hears a quiet voice inside his head, calling to him with an unfamiliar name that used to be his.  
   
_Hope is not the enemy._  
   
“Guerin?” Alex calls to him softly, because Michael’s eyes have lost focus and gone impossibly wide. Alex then tries to pull himself to sit up and lean against the wall. He regrets it immediately. “Fuck!” he gasps out a sob. Everything hurts. “ _Michael_ ,” he whines.  
   
That broken sound from Alex’s throat snaps Michael out of it. He scurries over to Alex, touching him gingerly as he checks him over.  
   
“Shit, I think you ripped your stitches,” he says as he observes blood on the back of Alex’s shirt, “And this wrist might be broken...”  
   
The dam breaks. Hot tears, sharp of pain and bitter of frustration stream down Alex’s face as he buries into Michael.  
   
“It’s going to be okay,” Michael whispers against his hair, pulling Alex in as tightly as he dares considering his injuries, “Do you want to go to the hospital? Or should I call Valenti?”  
   
A sob.  
   
Michael feels a surge of emotion. Alex is breaking his heart, and not in the way that he’s used to. His hand on Alex’s newly-broken wrist feels suddenly hot.  
   
Then there’s the telltale glow.  
   
“Holy sh--” Michael starts, shocked, then too mesmerized to even finish the sentence.  
   
Alex _knows_ what’s happening, but also, _what the fuck?_  
   
It takes a few seconds for it to really register with either of them. Then, Alex feels a _twitch_ in his leg and--  
   
“Stop! Stop!” Alex shouts, pulling away, because they could never do it - there’s no point in even knowing if it’s possible.  
   
It takes Michael a moment to catch up and let go. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t even know I--”  
   
“No, no, it’s fine. I feel good. It’s good,” Alex smiles as he mentally surveys his injuries, and finds they’ve vanished, “It just started to feel weird is all.” It’s not a lie - it did feel weird.  
   
“We’ve got to call Isobel and Liz and tell them I-- ‘m gonna be sick.” Michael barely gets the words out before he pukes.  
   
They make quite the pair, Michael too woozy to stand, Alex with a now-pointless cast on his arm and his old, ill-fitting, prosthetic abandoned. Together they crawl down the hallway to the washroom.  
   
Alex pulls a jumbo bottle of nail polish remover out from the very back of his sink cabinet. It’s too heavy to even comfortably hold up to drink.  
   
“Why’d you ‘ve that?” Michael slurs out between heaves into the toilet as Alex strokes his back.  
   
“So I’d be prepared… maybe helpful, even, if you ever got in some trouble. You know... in case you asked for me."


End file.
